THE FORSAKEN LUNA

THE BEGINNING OF FLORA'S TRAVAIL

CHAPTER ONE

I had just returned from washing clothes for one of the fortunate ones who lived in the better part of town. In my pack, there was a clear distinction between the rich and the poor, the freeborn and the slaves.

When I stepped into our district, known as “The Creek,” I noticed a group of people gathered in our yard. As I walked deeper into the crowd, I felt their eyes on me, filled with something that almost resembled pity.

It was unsettling. No one in this district ever cared about us. The last time I had seen a gathering like this, with such a look, was when my father passed.

It had been almost amusing, in a bitter way, how quickly they had all contributed money for his funeral. Even the medicine man, the same one who refused to treat him because we couldn’t pay, had brought flowers. The neighbor who never let me play with her children had laid roses on the coffin of a man who could no longer see them.

That was when I learned the cruel truth of life: when you are poor, you are despised; when you are wealthy, you are envied. But when you die, suddenly, you are loved.

Even those who were glad to see him gone had not dared show it outright.

As I stepped inside the small hut we called home, I noticed several men digging at one corner of the floor. They worked with an unsettling enthusiasm, like men who had just been hired for a long-awaited job.

“Are they rebuilding the hut?” I wondered. Maybe our master had finally decided to throw us out. He had threatened as much just yesterday.

“I give you seven days to pay homage,” he had sneered. “If you don’t, I will throw you out.”

But it hadn’t been seven days yet.

I was about to ask where my mother was when I saw her—a still figure wrapped in white. My breath caught. My chest tightened. The shape, the physique—it was her.

Before I could force out a word, a man said, “She is dead.”

A moment of silence stretched between us.

“Who is dead?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Your mother,” he replied, without an ounce of empathy.

The words hit me like a blade through the chest. My legs buckled. My vision blurred. A crushing wave of grief swallowed me whole. Hot tears spilled down my cheeks as an agonizing cry escaped my lips.

Two women reached for me, their hands resting on my arms in some weak attempt at comfort.

“It’s okay,” one of them murmured.

“We understand your pain,” the other said.

No, they didn’t.

Nothing was okay. And they didn’t understand a damn thing.

Only I knew the warmth of having my parents alive. Only I knew the weight of losing them both in the same year.

When my mother was finally laid to rest, the visitors, those who had come to offer condolences—or to confirm the bad news for themselves—began to leave one by one. Some men patted my back, others dropped money they wouldn’t have spared us had she still been alive.

Even the district head, the very man who refused to pay me my wages, had come to leave a few coins, pretending it was out of respect for tradition.

In our district, it was customary for people to bring gifts to the bereaved, who were not expected to work during the mourning period. But I knew better than to believe in their false generosity.

The men who came to ‘comfort’ my mother when my father died had done so not out of kindness, but for another purpose entirely.

“Don’t worry, beautiful woman,” they had said, hands lingering too long on her back. “We’ll take care of you and your child.”

Until, of course, one of them had shamelessly grown aroused before the eyes of everyone.

That was their true intent. They did not bother hiding it. And those who did would show their true colors soon enough. Because in this district, if a woman did not give in to their advances, life became even harder for her.

What was it about widows that these men found so irresistible? I couldn’t say. Perhaps only madness could explain the secrets of madness.

The mourning period had barely ended when my parents' master, Mr. Grimson, came to me late at night.

He stood at the doorway, a sickening smile on his face.

“You know your parents are gone,” he said. As if I needed reminding.

He stepped closer.

“If you cooperate with me,” he whispered, “I will take care of you.”

He moved his hand toward my most sensitive part.

“You know,” he whispered, “if you weren’t a slave, I would have married you.”

I clenched my fists. “But you don’t mind crawling between the legs of a slave?” I snapped.

He smirked, tightening his grip on my waist. “I love to help the less privileged.”

Disgust boiled inside me. I shoved him with all my strength, sending him sprawling backward. He landed hard—right on my mother’s grave.

A shriek tore from his throat as he scrambled to his feet. “I regret letting them bury your filthy mother here! She should have been thrown into the forest like your father!”

Tears welled in my eyes, hot and unstoppable. His words sliced through me like a blade.

I remembered the day my father died. We had no land, no money for a proper burial. Our so-called master refused to let us bury him anywhere near his property or the family cemetery.

The district head decreed that my father’s body be thrown into the forest. My mother fought, argued, begged—but after days of decay, the stench became unbearable. She had no choice.

And now, this man who had spat on my family still wanted to force himself on me.

I backed away, my breath ragged. He lunged again, grabbing at my blouse, tearing the fabric at the strap. His eyes widened as he stared at my exposed skin, hunger flashing in them like a beast spotting its prey.

I ran.

Reaching our small pile of kitchen utensils, I snatched up a knife. He froze.

I held it steady, my hand trembling but determined.

For a moment, we just stood there, the flickering lamp casting jagged shadows on the walls. Then, without another word, he bolted from the hut.